"I'm sorry… I'm sorry… I love you—I hate that I love you—but I do—I do—don't die—don't make me live knowing I did this—please—Jack—!"
When the paramedics finally burst into the alley, she still wouldn't release me at first—clinging, sobbing, begging them not to take me away.
They had to gently, firmly pry her arms loose while she screamed, "No—no—he needs me—he needs me!" Tears streamed endlessly as they loaded me onto the stretcher.
She climbed into the ambulance right beside me, never once letting go of my hand, her other palm still hovering uselessly over the knife as if she could will the blood to stop. The whole ride, she cried—great, heaving, shattered sobs—whispering over and over:
"I'm sorry… I'm sorry… please don't die… I can't… I can't lose you like this… Jack… please…"
Back at the hospital, once I was wheeled into the ICU and the doors sealed, the performance ended.
